by G. K. Parks
Stepping back, the quadrangle of Paul, Rachel, Alvin, and Jason was still confusing as hell, and I scribbled down my question concerning her motivation for attempting to seduce Paul. Then I contemplated how Jason fit into any of it. More importantly, how did Rachel connect to Wheeler? Did he send someone to threaten her for answers, and if he did, then why not run to the authorities? And why the hell did she trust Jason Oster? Were they having an affair like his security cohorts suspected, or were they meeting about something else? Fuck. Or maybe not. At this point, I wasn’t sure of my own name.
Grabbing my notepad, I needed to talk to Det. Jacobs and find out everything I could on Jason Oster and his connection to Rachel Romanski and Rodney Wheeler. Next, I needed to pay Gordon Russell a visit and convince him to hand over all the information concerning the hotel remodel, any input Wheeler might have had on it, and exactly what cutting into those cables could control. With any luck, he’d be compliant. If not, Jacobs or Jablonsky would have to pull some official strings, complete with court orders, assuming a judge would believe my insanity was something more substantial than just a fishing expedition. Lastly, I went back to the wall and scribbled Agent Christopher Walton with a big question mark next to his name. He fit in somehow. I just didn’t know how. Although, that fit perfectly with everything else that I clearly knew so well, which was absolutely nothing. It was no wonder I couldn’t sleep. I was fumbling around in the dark.
* * *
The next morning, I pulled myself out of bed, replaced the bulk of my bodily fluids with a high concentration of caffeine, and went to the MT building to meet with the VP, Luc Guillot. Upon entering the building, I greeted Jeffrey Myers and asked for a visitor’s pass. He chuckled and told me to use my security I.D. to go upstairs. He couldn’t be bothered escorting me, even though I teasingly threatened to turn over his lack of proper protocol to the boss.
Exiting on the seventeenth floor, I tossed a few silent curses at the elevator for causing all of these problems and went down the corridor. Martin’s office was empty, and the space that had once been my office was also vacant. Apparently I was irreplaceable.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Parker,” Luc Guillot greeted, buzzing me into his office before I could even knock. “Thank you for your continued dedication to this company.” He gestured to the chair. “I don’t mean to be rude, but James and I are teleconferencing at two, and I was hoping to pass along a plan for our current dilemma by then.”
“Absolutely,” I smiled, vaguely remembering that I owed Martin a voicemail for the day, but since he’d be talking to Luc, I figured I should be off the hook. Handing over a copy of my presentation, I launched into the various options available, the one I felt was the most accurate, and explained how a separate power supply for the elevator would be useful in the event of all types of emergencies, how it fit in with the pre-existing protocols, and once implemented it would save time and not require a brand new system and additional protocols to be devised in the event of a fire. When I was done, I let out an audible sigh. “That was a mouthful.”
He laughed good-naturedly. “It sounds like you’ve considered everything.” He flipped through the pages. “Is there an estimated cost for these changes?”
“Building maintenance provided me with a rough estimate which you can see there,” I pointed to a figure on the page, “but obviously, it will depend on what model power generator is purchased, how much the installation is, and if an alternative fuel source will be used instead of electricity. Mr. Martin tends to be as eco-friendly as he can which isn’t always the most fiscally responsible choice in the short-term but often pays off in the long run. However, I don’t know what he or the Board will decide since this is simply a contingency and not something that will hopefully ever be needed.”
Guillot skimmed through the information again. “Just to save you from having to do this again,” he picked up a pen to make a few notes in the margins, “worst case scenario happens. The secondary system fails. The elevator is no longer operational since both systems are offline. It’s stuck in between floors, and evacuation from the building is imperative. What are our options?”
“Take the stairs.” I sat back, considering different possibilities. “If a person is stuck inside the elevator, the doors could be jimmied open. If the car is between floors and the doors aren’t viable, then there is a small hatch in the ceiling. Given the height of the elevator car, it would be possible to get on top of the car and pry open the doors to the floor above and exit from there. Also, like we discussed months ago, there are makeshift ladders of sorts within the elevator shaft that could be utilized in the event of an emergency for both tactical and escape purposes.”
He made a few notes, but the smile was obvious. “I don’t mean this disrespectfully, but it’s obvious your training does not come from a corporate standpoint.”
“You mean because upon entering your office I already assessed the possible exits, vantage points for a shooter, and decided on the best place to take cover and what standard office items would make the best weapons?” It was true. But it was also a joke, and one that I would have never uttered if I was still collecting a paycheck from MT.
“That and because I read through your uniform security measures and you spent a lot of time focused on tactical readiness.”
“Sorry, some things I just can’t seem to shake. I do apologize for this flawed system. I should have noticed when devising the original plan. Maybe I should have been less tactically wary and more pragmatic.”
“It’s been six months since the implementation. No one noticed until now. I don’t believe this was an oversight. We shall call it a glitch.” He stood and extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure working with you again, Alexis. There’s still a place for you here if you ever change your mind.”
“Thank you, sir. But my reasons for declining have nothing to do with the work or the company.”
“I understand, but,” he shook my hand, smiling knowingly, “you don’t enjoy corporate work. It’s not,” he thought back to recall the word I used, “tactical enough for your taste.”
“Perhaps.” I went to the door. “Have a good day. Say hello to the head honcho for me.”
He winked. “I’ll tell James you said hello and sorted out our problem.” One down. One very complicated one left to go.
After leaving the MT building, I went straight to the precinct. There were far too many unknowns for my liking, and nothing about the police investigation jibed. It was why I jumped down Jacobs’ throat the other morning and why I was still chasing my tail in circles. Even if I wasn’t consulting or part of any law enforcement body, that didn’t mean that my P.I. license shouldn’t come with some perks, namely figuring out what the hell was actually going on.
“Jacobs,” I said forcefully, ignoring the fact that he was on the phone, “we need to talk.”
He held up a finger, and I leaned against his desk, impatiently waiting for him to hang up. After he concluded the call, he pushed away from the desk and leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t expect to see you again, Parker.” He chuckled. “I should have listened when O’Connell warned me you’d be back. What do you want now? Planning to accuse me of pinning even more crimes on your client or not doing my job properly,” he narrowed his eyes, “or maybe this time you’ll suggest I’m taking bribes.”
“I need your help.”
“And I need an apology, preferably in writing, but I was also told I shouldn’t expect that to happen either.”
“I was wrong,” I admitted.
“You were.” He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a file. “Why don’t we grab some lunch? And you can try that apology again. I believe the correct word you’re looking for is sorry.”
“Fine, but don’t expect me to pay because that might be considered bribery.” He gestured toward the door I just entered, and he trailed me out of the precinct and led me to his cruiser. Once we were inside and the car was in gear, he handed me the file from hi
s desk. “I am sorry, Detective. I get moody when my problem-solving skills go on the fritz.” I opened the folder. “Any particular reason why we needed to leave the station for this?”
“I’m not a pushover. And I sure as hell don’t cater to some P.I., particularly one who accuses me of pussyfooting around when it comes to two homicide investigations.” He grinned. Clearly, Jacobs was afraid of the flack his fellow officers would give him if he cooperated with me now. “So if anyone asks, you were groveling at my feet, begging for help.”
“Yeah, I don’t think anyone will buy that. Your story would be more convincing if you said I held you at gunpoint for the information.” I offered a friendly smile. “But then again, that would probably hurt that macho exterior of yours.”
He parked the car outside a diner and hit the release on his seatbelt before turning to face me. “I’ll tell you the truth.” He looked out the windshield, as if to make sure the coast was clear. “After we released you and the PDN employees from questioning on Wednesday, the only lead we had in the case was something strange in Paul Eastman’s responses. It was a hunch, and after some digging, his alibis and insistence on where he was at particularly important times didn’t add up. I wanted to bring him back in for questioning, very civil, but he refused. After evaluating the evidence again, it was apparent the security measures PDN used were compromised from somewhere on the inside which led to the second homicide. It was enough to arrest Eastman. I only planned to hold him forty-eight hours and then let him go. There wasn’t enough to charge him.”
“So you were going to run the clock and see if he’d crack under the pressure.” The cops had some leeway which often proved useful.
“The DA’s office asked what we had, and I told them I was going to let Eastman go if no other evidence turned up and he didn’t confess. About two hours later, I get a phone call. Someone at the FBI phoned the DA and said they had evidence of Eastman’s involvement in the murder. Whoever it was pulled some favors because they wanted to indict, despite the department’s hesitation.”
“Since when does anything like that ever happen?” Under normal circumstances, the police would be pushing for charges and the DA would be reluctant to file. This was completely ass-backward.
“It doesn’t. The whole thing stunk to high heaven, so I called in a few favors of my own. It was after Eastman almost died in custody. Thanks for the save, by the way.” I nodded, not wanting to interrupt. “Anyway, it turns out Eastman was involved in some shady deals with Hodge, and the FBI was hoping he possessed evidence to use against their big fish since nothing will stick to this whale.” He shrugged. “I know. You already told me as much. Then I tried to get Eastman to stay in custody. It honestly was for his protection, Parker,” Jacobs insisted. “But I don’t blame him for refusing or you for agreeing with his decision. He’s been getting played.” He pointed at me accusingly. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it for the shit he’s involved with.”
“I never said he was a saint.”
“How’s he doing? Is he gonna be okay?”
“He’ll be fine. But everything gets even more complicated than what you just told me.” And I filled him in on my suspicions concerning Rachel Romanski, Alvin Hodge, and Jason Oster.
Then I took a few minutes to read the information in the file. It was a statement made by Jason Oster. The tale he told matched Paul’s. The wireless camera was used to monitor PDN clients and ensure the honesty and moral integrity of the hotel staff. At the moment, the memory card was being examined, but the files were damaged and didn’t look promising. Oster’s cooperation might have led to another dead end.
“We need to speak to the ex-wife,” Jacobs said, finally opening his car door. “Let’s grab some chow and then go have a chat. Hell, I’ll even let you ride along.”
Thirty-three
“Why haven’t you questioned her already?” I asked as we drove to Jason Oster’s apartment. The detail assigned to monitor the woman inside had reported she never left the premises. She stayed at Oster’s all day and night. Jason, on the other hand, went to work in the morning as if his life and world weren’t falling apart. “Her ex-husband was found hanging in the middle of a hotel. Spouses current and former are always suspects.”
“By the time we sorted out whose case it was, enough evidence surfaced so we didn’t need anyone to identify the body, and once Frank Costan’s remains were discovered, we had no reason to question Romanski.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I argued.
“And what part of this investigation has ever made a damn bit of sense?” he snapped. “I knew I was being kept in the dark. The only question was why. But after what I’ve learned about Wheeler and SAC Walton’s questionable investigation, it all makes a bit more sense. Shit, I’m surprised the suits haven’t taken away our homicide investigation completely since they’re more concerned with identifying and apprehending Frank Costan’s replacement on the most wanted list.”
“Did Oster give you anything else?” I asked, realizing I still lacked a lot of information. Maybe Jacobs was in the dark, but at least he had a flashlight. I didn’t even have that.
“Only access to the wireless camera he and Eastman set up. The techs are sorting through the files now. The thing’s been used a dozen times, so the erased files are corrupted. It’ll take time.”
“Now who’s keeping me in the dark?” I growled, smart enough to realize he didn’t want to divulge whatever new information he possessed. “Why would Oster erase whatever damning evidence was on the camera?”
“Probably to cover his own tracks. Maybe hide his involvement,” Jacobs speculated. “I’d bet he figured we wouldn’t be able to recover the files, so he might as well appear to be cooperating.” He led me inside the apartment building and to the stairwell. “One step at a time. And let me do the talking. You’re a civilian, and she doesn’t have to speak to you or answer any of your questions.”
“Well, unless you arrest her, she doesn’t have to answer your questions either.”
Emerging on the proper floor, Jacobs glanced both ways down the hall, probably out of habit, and went to Jason Oster’s apartment, knocking on the door. There was no answer, and he tried again. Finally, he called out, “Rachel Romanski, this is the police. We know you’re inside. Open the door, ma’am.” So much for subtle.
Rachel came to the door still dressed in the outfit she wore the day before. She looked jittery, like she drank too much coffee and hadn’t slept. The same way I looked most mornings.
“Alex?” she asked, completely confused. “What are you doing here? I told you yesterday not to involve the police.”
“Sorry, Rachel,” I said, hoping she would be more forthcoming if she thought the reason for the knock at the door was for her own protection.
“Ma’am, may we come inside?” Jacobs asked, and she stepped back so we could enter. “I’m Detective Jacobs. I’m sorry to bother you this afternoon, but I have some news. Would you mind taking a seat?”
“What’s going on?” The realization that we weren’t at her apartment must have sunk in because she turned to me with a fierce, defiant look. “How did you know where I was? Who the hell are you?”
“Alex Parker, P.I.” If it was good enough for Andy Barker and Magnum, it ought to be good enough for me. Or I needed to stop watching so much television.
“Ma’am,” Jacobs intervened, “please, take a seat.” Obeying his order, she sat in a chair and shifted her gaze between the two of us. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your ex-husband, Alvin Hodge, is dead.” She looked away but had no obvious reaction. She already knew. “Ma’am, can I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Go ahead.” She turned back and stared at me, betrayal on her face. “Maybe after that you should ask Alex some questions since she showed up while the scumbag responsible was at my yoga studio.”
I held my tongue and leaned against the wall near the door in case she tried to make a run for it. While Jacobs questioned
her about the last time she had seen Alvin, which was almost a year ago, I contemplated her reasoning for why she would think Paul was responsible. Since her answers weren’t useful, I decided to throw caution to the wind and ask about more current events.
“Rachel, when did you first meet Paul Eastman?” I interrupted, and Jacobs turned with a glare, seconds away from telling me to leave or shut up. Before he could speak, Rachel surprised us by answering the question.
“I met him when I was visiting Alvin at work. It was around the time of our divorce. But I don’t think he remembered. If he did, then he’s sicker than I thought.” She shook her head, disgusted. “I mean, seriously, who the hell tries to sleep with their friend’s spouse, former or otherwise?” Obviously, that was rhetorical, particularly since that was a fairly frequent occurrence according to officers responding to domestic disturbances. She was angry and got off the couch and turned her back to us, staring out the window.
“But you went to Paul’s place a month ago. You wanted to seduce him.” It wasn’t a question, but with any luck, she’d offer a reason for her behavior.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she hissed, her back to us.
“What do you mean you didn’t have a choice?” Jacobs asked, flipping to a new page in his notepad. “Are you saying Mr. Eastman raped you?”
I let out an audible, exasperated sigh. Now Jacobs wanted to add sexual assault to Paul’s rap sheet. Unbelievable. He turned to me and arched an eyebrow, wondering why I was annoyed.
“No. We didn’t have sex.” She placed her palms on the window sill and leaned forward, resting her forehead against the glass. “I think I need a lawyer.”